Taking Chances
by Spinesless
Summary: The suspect lashes out, his blade sticking fast into Morse's flank. There's a twist, a tear. Blood erupts from the wound, staining his previously white shirt a rather brilliant shade of crimson. [Morse gets stabbed and Thursday is anything but happy.]


**A/N: I'm really smitten with this show, and after only watching the pilot, I knew I had to write something for it. Apologies for any errors, then, but please feel free to correct them. I'm working on trying to get the characterizations right––really the hardest part of writing fic. **

**Feedback is much appreciated! Thank you so much for reading!**

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><p>He doesn't chase the bloke down because he thinks he's better than the rest of them, he's not seeking glory, he's just fast––well, fast<em>er<em>, anyway. He's able to maneuver the narrow streets easily, unburden by a hulking black cab.

Feet tamping an uneven rhythm against the sidewalk, he takes a sharp turn down the darkened path between two buildings. He hears the rest of the backup somewhere behind him; not exactly leagues away, but not too close either. He has the passing thought to _be careful_ but it flits away as quickly as it came. His suspect, having sprinted ahead, is now pressing his palms against the solid brick wall. A dead end. The fool.

"You're trapped," Morse states without a hint of gloating in his voice. He draws near, trying his hardest to conceal his heavy breathing from the chase. "You must surrender," he continues. "It's your only option." He hears the commotion behind him grow louder, but the rest of them haven't caught up just yet.

The man, hunched over and panting, turns halfway to face Morse. There's a hard look in his eye, like he hasn't given up entirely. His hand slips into the pocket of his coat, pulling out something that reflects the fading light of the late afternoon. Morse moves––but not he's not fast enough this time.

Time shifts, then, as it has a tendency to do. It's the same as anticipating one more step than there actually is on a flight of stairs––the feeling of one's foot falling straight through thin air is nearly identical to the hollowness in Morse's stomach.

The suspect lashes out, his blade sticking fast into Morse's flank. There's a twist, a tear.

The sound Morse emits is small and uncharacteristically high pitched. It's a choking noise, like a cough interrupted. The blade is withdraw from his flesh, prompting another declaration of pain. His hands go to his side and he stumbles forward a few steps but does not fall. He's dimly aware that the din at the head of the passageway has come to a head, and that his suspect is quite literally backing into a corner.

So, this is how it's going to be then, eh? Killed by a common murderer––not even an interesting or clever one like he's used to dealing with. It's such a shame, he thinks. Such a shame.

Someone calls Morse's name, but he can't quite hear.

He doesn't know what compels him to look down. Maybe it's the macabre desire to witness proof of his life force streaming away. Maybe it's a way to ground him in reality. He doesn't want to look down, but he does.

Blood oozes from between his clutching fingers, staining his previously white shirt a rather brilliant shade of crimson and darkening his navy jacket. Morse actively feels himself become lightheaded and he's distantly aware of falling to his knees. He pivots, trying not to collapse on his injured side, but his plummet is jarring nonetheless. A moan rips itself from his throat, echoing quietly in the enclosed space. He looks to the entry of the alleyway and spots a familiar figure running straight towards him, gun drawn.

"Endeavour, you _bloody idiot_!" roars Fred Thursday.

There's a scuffle above him––the suspect being arrested, he vaguely assumes. He's rapidly losing awareness. He can feel the cobblestones press against him, he feels his hands trapped under the deadweight of his own body, his feels his injured side like it's on fire. Then, he feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

"Morse." It's Thursday, voice urgent in his ear. "Morse, wake up."

Morse attempts to form a response, tries to hold words in his mouth, but they tumble out in a series of indistinguishable whimpers. Thursday's grip on him tightens, and he's being turned onto his back. Pressure on the wound gone, he gasps in pain, eyes sliding half closed.

"Christ Almighty, Endeavour." The hands on his body vanish only to return a moment later, pressing a wadded up ball of fabric against his side. Fred Thursday has found his resolve; he has seen worse, much worse. He tells himself this, repeats it in his mind like a mantra. "Have you always been this damn skinny?"

When there's no response, Thursday's frown deepens. "Morse!" he barks.

A weak cough. "S-Sir?" he asks in a voice thinner than he is.

"I'm here, lad. I'm here." Thursday settles onto his protesting knees and doesn't bother to warn the idiot constable before dramatically increasing pressure on the wound. Morse emits a choked gasp that sticks and rattles his chest. He wheezes once before his startling blue eyes flutter close.

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><p>Morse awakens to a gentle rocking of constant, continuous movement. He drifts, focusing on the pressure against his back, the throbbing in his side that mirrors a pounding in his head. After a moment, he opens his eyes.<p>

He's lying down, staring at the ceiling of a car.

That's… not quite what he expected to see. Though, to be honest, he's not really sure what he _was_ expecting to see.

The vehicle hits a pothole in the street, its wheel dipping. He's rattled, rather violently, despite someone's hold on him. He doesn't cry out, not exactly. The moan isn't loud, but it is rather guttural and quite audible to the person making sure he doesn't slide off the seat and onto the floor.

"Strange, he's coming around," someone above him warns.

"We're less than five minutes away from the hospital, sir," comes the reassuring response.

"Morse, can you hear me?"

Nothing makes any damn sense. Is… is that Thursday? And Strange? Why are they in a car, of all places? What happened to their suspect? Thoughts and concepts flash by in his mind, but they move too quickly for him to grab ahold of any single one of them.

"Morse!" but it's already too late, he's slipping away.

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><p>The second time Morse awakens, consciousness brings with it the specific feeling of time lost. He lies still a moment, eyes closed, and takes stock of himself.<p>

Limbs all there. Extremities, too. His left side hurts something awful, but it's a pain faraway in the distance. Well, alright, then. He opens his eyes.

Four poster bed. White sheets. Neither of which are his. Pale green drapes curtaining him off from the rest of the inexcusably white washed room. Unfamiliar sounds, unfamiliar _smells_. He's in a hospital, oh God damn it.

"You're a right pain in my arse, you know that, don't you?" Detective Inspector Fred Thursday, sitting on his right.

"Sir." Morse's voice breaks on the single syllable, raw with disuse. He swallows, and tries again. "Morning."

Thursday's eyebrows head towards the ceiling and he snorts. Shaking his head slightly, he roots around in his coat pocket for his pipe. "Morning is long gone, Endeavour." Pipe found, he turns it over in his hands several times, like he's mulling something over. Morse stays quiet.

Thursday's grip on his pipe tightens suddenly, like he wants to throw it against the far wall. He doesn't, of course, but he thinks better of lighting it in a hospital, and places it back in his pocket. "Morse," he says, "why _exactly_ did you think it would be wise to pursue a highly volatile suspect, on foot, while you, yourself, were unarmed?"

It's a bit of a loaded question.

After a moment, Morse shrugs. "He was getting away. The cabs were too slow, and he was headed for the streets. On foot was faster, and I didn't know he was armed. We would have lost him, had I not chased him into the alley."

Thursday's frown tightens. "Had you _not _chased him into the alley, you wouldn't be lying in a damned hospital bed, having lost a rivers' worth of blood with stitches in your side. And, even if you _had known _he was armed, you would have gone after him anyway, wouldn't you? No. Don't answer that." A heavy sigh.

Morse swallows around the knot in his throat. "I was just doing my job, sir."

"Your job doesn't have to involve getting yourself killed."

"Doesn't it, though? Isn't that the job of a policeman? To protect people?"

"Morse––"

"A man who had killed three women was apprehended, and he will never get the chance to hurt anyone, ever again. I may be a little worse for wear, but if it means that others are safe, so be it!"

Thursday stares back at him evenly. Morse's heart rate is up, and he's breathing heavily. He tries to push himself into an elevated position, because frankly, arguing with his boss while he's flat on his back is rather humiliating. But moving tugs on his injury, bringing the pain to the foreground. He grits his teeth and blinks against the onset of lightheadedness. He doesn't notice Thursday rise from his seat, but the older man is at his side immediately, a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't try to move, you'll exacerbate everything and make a damn mess."

A breathy laugh. "Like I haven't already?"

Thursday sighs. "The problem, Endeavour," he says. "Is that not everyone is as noble as you are. And it truly is a shame." Once stabilized, Fred Thursday returns to his seat. Morse stares up at the tiled ceiling, frustrated and tired and aching. He winds the thin blanket up in his fists, relaxing only after several measured minutes.

Thursday glances at his watch and sighs heavily once more. "Win is insisting you come back to the house and rest up a few days after your stay here is through."

Morse blinks in surprise. "Sir, I couldn't possibly."

"Oh, you certainly can. She won't take anything but a proper 'yes' for an answer. And, between you and I, I wouldn't want to upset her. She's rather fond of you, Morse. Though, I can't imagine why."

A snort. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm afraid your bedside manner could use a bit of work."

Thursday points menacingly. "You just keep quiet about my bedside manner."

Morse lets a small smile line his face and obeys.

* * *

><p>Several days later, Morse finds himself perched on the edge of the bed in the Thursday family home's guest bedroom. There's a worn book in his slender hands, and he turns it over and over, memorizing each angle and surface.<p>

He's still peaky, and impossibly thin, and his side protests loudly when he moves too fast, but he can walk on his own (if painfully slowly) and climb stairs well enough (at the incredible rate of one stair per hour), so in his opinion, he's fine.

But his initial awkwardness aside, the Thursdays are a rather lovely family. Win is an excellent cook, and he thoroughly believes her promises to fatten him up. He's trying to convince his boss that he'll be fit for light duty in a few more days, but Thursday isn't buying it. It's a bit frustrating, but even Morse has to admit that he secretly appreciates the fussing. Anything is better than suffering alone back at his tiny flat.

There's a knock at the door. Morse quickly puts the put down and straightens up. "Come in," he says.

Fred Thursday opens the door to the room. He inclines his head slightly towards Morse. "Win says tea'll be in five."

Morse nods. "Thank you, I'll be right down."

"Need any help with the stairs?"

A flush spreads over his face––quite an accomplishment, really. "No thank you, sir, I think I can manage."

Thursday arches a brow, not buying it in the slightest. Instead of pressing on, however, he just shrugs. "Suit yourself. Be careful, though, I don't need you toppling down headfirst and getting a concussion, on top of everything."

Morse grins. "Don't worry, sir. I'll be careful."


End file.
